


Bedtime

by wordquandary



Series: Amy!verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babies, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Genderswap, Kid Fic, girl!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordquandary/pseuds/wordquandary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em><span>“Fine, but there is no way I’m reading,” he looked down at the table where Joan had put some of Amy’s books, “’The Hungry Caterpillar’ to her.”</span></em> Sherlock tells unconvetional bedtime stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock bbc | Joan (girl!John)/Sherlock | PG | 1585 |  _beta: flecalicious_ | _disclaimer_ : the show and the characters aren't mine

**_Bedtime_ **

It was agonising—he was so close, damn it. The answer, the solution was there, he knew it—if only he could take that final step and _grasp_ it. 

It had been a brutal murder, yet in contrast to the obvious mess of the crime scene there had been little actual evidence as to the identity of the killer. The victim’s life had been easy enough to deduce; strong arms and indentations around the forehead from a hard hat suggested builder but his hands were not rough and calloused—instead they were dry, slightly wrinkled from exposure to chemicals and water; a window cleaner, then. No ring on his finger or indentation of one removed and a day’s worth of stubble suggested his status as a bachelor—but where was the clue leading to the murderer—where was the motive? 

There had obviously been an argument—that much was apparent from the force of the stab wounds and the random spread over the victim’s body—but what was the _reason_? The usual arguments over lovers, money or drink didn’t seem to fit. The man had been single, so not a lover; window cleaners didn’t make enough money for it to be a fight about finances and there was no evidence that the man had been intoxicated. So what was it?

Frustrated, Sherlock shoved his hands through his hair. He needed to think.

Suddenly a quiet hiccoughing sound could be heard coming from his old bedroom—his daughter’s room now. With a sigh of frustration over the unsolved case Sherlock rose from the sofa. Joan had gone to bed hours ago, utterly exhausted after another long day looking after Amy and Sherlock; she needed a rest. Best to quiet Amy now before the real crying began, waking Joan—if their daughter had inherited anything it was a healthy set of lungs. 

Sherlock made his way to Amy’s room. She was a few months old now; her rich black hair curled gently, a stark contrast to her skin. Sherlock entered her room and peered down at her over the sides of the crib. Two blue eyes stared back at him as she continued to fuss, quietly for the moment. 

It always surprised Sherlock how much he loved the little infant that was his daughter. Before she’d been born he’d had his doubts about it all. He’d never given much thought to having children; babies in particular had always struck him as boring, useless creatures—why would it be any different if it was his own? Somehow, though, it was—somehow seeing the little bits of himself and Joan—especially Joan—in Amy made her special, important. Easy to love. 

He’d been afraid before that he’d be a bad father; he knew who he was, what he was like, and he worried that he’d mess this up—mess her up—and that was unacceptable. Joan had faith in him though; whenever he voiced his worries she’d tell him he was wrong, remind him of why she loved him in the first place. Love makes you blind, he supposed. 

Even if he didn’t have faith in himself, he had faith in Joan. She was so undeniably _good_ —if he ever did mess up he knew she’d tell him, correct him, and it eased his fears. No matter what happened he trusted Joan to rein him in, to remind him of what was acceptable and what was a ‘bit not good’—together they could raise their daughter to be, if not _normal_ , at least sane. 

Amy had started to fuss again—the quiet hiccoughing sounds were getting louder, her tiny fists repeatedly clenching at the air. Time to head this off before Joan was disturbed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to settle Amy down—she was a restless child, frequently waking in the middle of the night. Thankfully Sherlock wasn’t much of a sleeper either—probably where she got it from—so when she woke in the early hours of the morning he would come in and quiet her; there was no point in Joan coming down if one of them was already awake.

He started to talk out loud, his voice softly reverberating around the room as he soothed her back to sleep. He’d tried various techniques to get her to sleep but for some reason the sound of his voice always seemed to work.

“A window-cleaning bachelor brutally murdered, but why?” It wasn’t the usual bedtime story but past experience had told him that _what_ he said wasn’t as important as _how_ he said it. As long as his voice was gentle, soft but still in control Amy would slowly drift off. Besides, he needed to solve this case and Amy was by far a better sounding board than a sleeping Joan or a skull. 

As he continued to recall the elements of the case he observed the figure lying in front of him. Those blue eyes, a perfect match for Joan’s, were still transfixed on his gaze, an analysis of her own seemingly taking place. 

As his voice filled the small room Amy’s eyes began to droop. The way she felt so safe and secure in his presence never failed to amaze Sherlock; in the adult world he intimidated, offended, terrorised; the only person who had ever seemed to feel calm and safe in his presence was sleeping upstairs. It was nice, if unexpected, to find another.

As her eyes finally closed, her breathing deepening as it slowed into the rhythm of sleep, Sherlock continued to talk, to solve the case, still transfixed on the child now dreaming in front of him.

Lost in observing her tiny movements—the kick of a leg, the twitch of an arm, the little ‘O’ shapes she made with her mouth, the solution hit him. “The brother,” Sherlock remarked quietly so as not to disturb Amy, now resting peacefully, “of course.”

It was simple, as were all things when you knew how. It had been about money after all—just not the deceased’s.

“Murdered by his brother who wanted their father’s inheritance, the violence exacerbated by his drinking, it’s so _obvious_.” His voice held a tone of wonder and frustration; it really shouldn’t have taken so long to understand this one.

He turned towards the door—Amy was drifting in her dreams and Lestrade needed to be told the answer, an arrest needed to be made. It was only then that he saw the figure hidden in the shadows, leaning against the doorframe.

“Your latest murder cases are not really suitable bedtime material, you realise.” Joan’s voice was subdued, lacking the bite these conversations usually had.

 “She doesn’t understand what I’m saying yet, where’s the harm in bouncing ideas off of her?” Sherlock headed out the room past Joan, gently closing the door behind him.

Joan’s expression was one of amusement and resignation. “She’s four months old, Sherlock. I don’t care if she doesn’t understand properly; I don’t want you scaring her with your murder cases.”

“If she was scared she would have cried, infants have very primitive methods of communication.” He recalled the glimmer of intelligence he had seen behind her eyes earlier; _most_ children, he amended in his mind.

Joan simply sighed; she wasn’t in the mood for this, it seemed. What was she even doing awake? He’d been trying so hard to keep quiet, to keep Amy quiet, in vain it appeared.

“I thought you’d stopped having nightmares?” It was the only reason he could think of.

“What? Oh, no, I woke up and realised you hadn’t come to bed yet so I came to make sure you got some sleep.” There was a subtle sparkle in her eyes, despite her exhaustion—something in Sherlock’s chest constricted.

He hadn’t considered what his absence would mean to her—he often spent the nights during cases ruminating and sometimes he forgot that she worried about him too. 

“I didn’t expect you to be using our daughter as a replacement for your skull,” she continued, though it wasn’t an admonishment as such, “you looked...happy. Still, next time do you think you could use more child orientated material?” Not an admonishment then; more of a request.

“Boring.” Children’s books were all the same, so predictable and dull. How did they engage children at all?

“They’re not for _you_ , they’re for _her_. Children like that kind of thing.” Joan’s voice was exasperated, her expression still amused.

“Our daughter is not ‘most children’.” Joan looked startled by this exclamation—why? Wasn’t it obvious that their child was unique, special?

“I know,” she replied in a hushed tone, her eyes crinkled in a private smile; something he’d said had pleased her, “but if she really doesn’t understand what you’re saying it won’t matter, will it? Please Sherlock, just no more murder cases for her, alright?”

It was obviously important to her; it was probably one of those ‘bit not good’ things he’d been thinking about earlier.

“Fine, but there is no way I’m reading,” he looked down at the table where Joan had put some of Amy’s books, “ _’The Hungry Caterpillar’_ to her.” The Hungry Caterpillar? What kind of a book title was that? 

“Fair enough,” Joan laughed, “now hurry up and text Lestrade and come to bed.”

Sherlock grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket and started texting. When the little envelope on the screen disappeared he took Joan’s hand, twining his fingers with hers, kissing her tenderly before leading her upstairs.

Fin.  



End file.
